


Forging On

by BriarLily



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Fluff, New Relationship, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-20 20:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11928198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BriarLily/pseuds/BriarLily
Summary: Sherlock knows Molly's secret, and she's desperate to know what he plans to do with it





	Forging On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quarto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarto/gifts).



> For Quarto! All your prompts were excellent; I was very excited to write for them. Hope you enjoy!

In the days following the incident at the Carmichaels’ estate, Molly woke up, meticulously applied the face she presented to the world, and went to work. Just has she had after Emelia’s death, and every other tragedy within their group. That didn’t stop her hands from trembling as she applied her mustache the next time, or from jumping every time the door to the morgue opened, subconsciously convinced it would be Lestrade or Gregson coming to arrest her. Andersen, no master of the subtle, even noticed it the second day. She responded as she typically did, growling at him to get back to his tasks. 

Despite her anxiety, nearly a week passed before before any of the Yard’s detectives visited her again. Her heart skipped a beat when Lestrade’s strident voice echoed down the stone hallway, and she nearly ran when she heard Sherlock’s voice reply. This was surely it, Sherlock had tied up the ends of the case and was finally coming for her. She knew she’d stand strong at the trial, in the hopes that the next woman in her place wouldn’t have to, but she couldn’t help the momentary panic. 

Instead, Lestrade and Sherlock entered, and Lestrade greeted her in the same manner as usual, pleasant but with a slight strain of authority, implying he expected her cooperation with Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, was much quieter than usual. He met her eyes briefly when he came in, but nothing like the penetrating looks she was used to from him. He bent over the corpse laid out on the table in front of her without so much as a greeting, nevermind his typical criticism, even when he couldn’t fault her work. Clearing her throat gruffly, she went about detailing the ‘points of interest’ of the case, a young man supposedly touring the Continent, only to be found in the stable on his father’s estate when it burnt down. Sherlock listened, not interrupting once, another first. Once she had finished, he turned to Lestrade. 

“Natural causes,” he stated firmly. The conclusion made sense to her, given the signs of strain in the heart she had pointed out, but the inspector was not as satisfied. 

“Natural - how?” Lestrade sputtered.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock quickly rattled off his deductions, giving the inspector the story he needed. “Poor bugger,” Lestrade muttered once he’d finished, with a sympathetic glance towards the corpse. 

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said, clapping his hands together. “I suppose all that’s left is for Scotland Yard to inform the grieving parents?”

“Right,” Lestrade sighed. “I’ll be off then. Sherlock?”

Sherlock waved him off. “I have a matter to discuss with Hooper. Do come and find me if you’re delivered of any more interesting cases.”

With an affronted huff, Lestrade left, leaving Molly alone with Sherlock, aside from Andersen noisily working to cover up the fact that he was eavesdropping in the back of the room. Sherlock flicked a derisive glance back at him, then addressed Molly. “This is a matter of some delicacy…”

Molly nodded shortly. “My office.” She led Sherlock back down the stone hallway and up a flight of stair to the oversized cupboard where she kept all her records, particularly her own research. She’d never invited Sherlock up here before, not wanting to get any closer to him than necessary, but that was well and truly a moot endeavor now. She gestured to the flimsy chair while she took the seat behind the small desk. Sherlock sat down gingerly, looking around the room with the sharp gaze she knew meant he was examining it for evidence. 

“What do you want?” she asked bluntly. 

Sherlock blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You clearly haven’t told the Yard about...me. You want to use the information to your advantage then, hold it over me. What do you want? More body parts? Something even your brother cannot get you?” Her heart was beating so violently it was a miracle she could get the words out.

He frowned. “I don’t...want anything,” he said, pausing. “I merely wanted to assure you that your secret was safe with me.” He snorted. “I certainly don’t intend to leave the morgue in the hands of _Andersen_.”

Her lips quirked before she realized it. She cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she said, voice a strangled mixture of her affected and her natural ones. 

Sherlock inclined his head. He hesitated over his next words, seeming almost nervous, a state she would never have associated with the famous detective. “I...also wished to invite you to 221b of an evening, if that would be agreeable to you.” She blinked, nonplussed. Sherlock rushed over the next words, as if forcing them out. “I have been...somewhat at ends, since John left to pursue his own domestic bliss with Mary, and this past case has shown me vividly just how invaluable an additional perspective is to my work. I would appreciate your accompaniment on occasion, if you wished to provide it.”

She furrowed her brows. His confession made sense, if she was to take him as genuine, and the tone seemed sincere, but: “Why me?”

Sherlock turned away at that, eyes dropping to the floor. “I am aware we have been at odds more often than not, but I have always valued your work Hooper. You have impressive insight into the most important points of a case, especially for being untrained as you are, which facilitates my work greatly.”

“Untrained?” she asked, irritated. 

“In the arts of deduction,” Sherlock confirmed, inclining his head. “Though I would be most pleased to assist you in that area.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is this just so you can have someone else to feel superior to now that you’ve run John off?”

He scowled back at her. “No. I was genuine in my praise of your abilities, though I can of course understand your doubts. With that said, I do have many pressing cases to get back to…” He stood and turned to the door. 

“Wait, Sherlock,” Molly called after him. She realized a moment after the words left her mouth that she had used her natural voice, louder than was careful. Luckily, his hand was still on the doorknob, the handle not yet turned, and the only people likely to be roaming this corner of the hospital were in the room. Sherlock turned back to her, irritation still spread across his features. “I didn’t mean…” She lifted her chin and met his eyes. “I appreciate your offer, and would be glad to assist you on your cases.”

Sherlock’s hand dropped, and he shoved it in his pocket self consciously. “Thank you,” he said finally. “I shall send notice here when I require your help?”

She nodded. “That would be satisfactory.”

Sherlock nodded in return. “Well.” He stood straight and gave her a slight bow, extending his hand. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

She stood and rounded her desk, extending her hand to meet his. “I do as well.” He took her hand in his, large hand encasing hers in a firm grip. She looked up at him and smiled, and he returned the expression.

-

It was another week before she heard from Sherlock again. In that time, Lestrade came once and Gregson twice. Neither gave any indication that they viewed her any differently than they had before. Sherlock’s message came for her in the late afternoon, not long before she was due to get off, which he probably knew. She took a cab to Baker Street after her shift, and was shown up to Sherlock’s rooms by his landlady, after she had made absolutely certain she didn’t want tea. Molly suspected she’d bring some up anyway. 

Molly paused a moment before knocking, shifting on her feet. Sherlock’s voice rang out through the door before she had raised her hand. “Come in!”

She opened the door and found Sherlock sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, chin resting on his steepled fingers and eyes closed. Molly walked hesitantly into the room. Without opening his eyes, Sherlock gestured to the chair across from him. Molly sat at the edge of it, tense and waiting. 

Eventually, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at her. “What do you know of the Black Pearl of the Borgias?” 

-

By the time she left Baker Street again, it was the early hours of the morning, but she had never felt so awake. She and Sherlock had spent most of the time just talking. Much to her surprise, he had valued her opinion and even asked for it, but the surprise had faded away in the ease of conversing with him without having to watch her every movement and word for any sign that would give her secret away. The case was fascinating, and Sherlock was still sitting up when she left him, lost in his mind palace. Before he had retreated there, she had made him promise to call on her again when he had any new developments. She knew waking up later that day and preparing for the morgue would be hell, but it would be worth it.

-

 

Molly raced alongside Sherlock, trying to keep up with his longer strides. She panted for breath, But her lips still held their grin. Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed her hand as pulled her to the side, into a narrow alleyway she hadn't noticed. He pressed against the wall, dragging her with him. She hit the wall with a gasp, and he looked at her and raised a finger to his lips, eyes sparkling. She wrinkled her nose at him, but tried to quiet her breathing. 

The wall was cool and slightly damp but Sherlock’s gloved hand was warm in hers. Molly held her breath as the sound of heavy feet ran towards and past their hiding place without even pausing. Once the footsteps had faded, Molly exhaled slowly. 

“Morons,” Sherlock muttered. She elbowed him. 

“You're the one who had to push our luck poking around and got us caught in the first place.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “We got what we needed.”

She snorted. “We likely could have done so without burning our bridges so thoroughly.”

“I doubt the factory will last long after Scotland Yard gets its hands on it. Even if the owner truly wasn’t aware of what was happening, there are few quicker ways to drive off customers than to have your business under investigation for treason.”

Molly rolled her eyes, but silently agreed. Sherlock leaned around the corner and, apparently satisfied with the view, led her back out into the street. “Are you for the Yard then?” she asked.

He sighed. “Yes, I suppose we should enlighten the detective inspector before the guilty parties get too far.”

She nodded. “Then I will see you next at the morgue?”

Sherlock paused. She continued walking, then looked back at him curiously. He shook his head and caught up with her in one quick stride. “Actually,” he replied, not looking at her. “If you are not too tired, perhaps I could invite you to 221B...purely to discuss the case of course.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Of course.”

“Mrs. Hudson could certainly be convinced to make up a tea tray if she remains awake…” Sherlock trailed off, looking up at the pitch dark sky.

“I am quite capable of making my own tea without disturbing your poor landlady, Holmes,” Molly protested.

“Then I will see you at Baker Street?” he said, turning to her eagerly.

Molly smiled. “I will wait for you there.”

-

Another late night at 221B, and she was settled on the sofa, preferring it to John’s chair, listening to Sherlock talk animatedly about the case. The words washed over her, the depth and familiarity of his voice soothing, while in the back of her mind she idly pieced together the details he was expounding upon, not coming up with anything entirely coherent in her exhaustion. She struggled to keep her eyes open, but stress of days of going directly from the morgue to Baker Street and barely spending hours in her own rooms was beginning to catch up to her, and the flickering fire, the lull of Sherlock’s voice, and the rhythm of him pacing across the floor were working powerfully on her. Her eyelids fluttered, then fell.

She woke up with a start, panicked at first. Letting her guard down was dangerous, and she wasn’t used to waking up somewhere other than her own bed. When she recognized her surroundings, she could tell that the first hints of dawn were beginning to filter through the windows of 221B, illuminating Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair, looking at her. His hands were folded in his lap and his gaze was almost gentle, regarding her rather than watching. His mouth was relaxed, almost smiling. She blinked and met his eyes. He did smile then, and she found herself smiling back involuntarily. 

“Good morning,” he said quietly. 

“Good morning,” she replied, copying his soft tone. The dawn light softened the edges of the room, making it seem vague and almost dream-like. She sat up on the couch stretching. A blanket fell off her shoulders, and she looked at it in surprise. It hadn’t been there when she had fallen asleep. Something tickled her lip, and she wrinkled her nose. 

“Let me,” Sherlock said rising from his chair. He crossed the room and knelt in front of her. She blinked. He reached for the mustache that was half hanging from her face. “May I? I have a supply of spirit gum at hand.” She nodded. He carefully peeled the rest of the mustache off, and his thumb smoothed over her lip after it. She drew a small breath. Sherlock set the mustache carefully on the arm of the couch and sat back on his heels. 

They stared at each other. The room was cool, the fire having gone out hours before, and it added to the feeling that maybe she simply hadn’t woken up yet. Sherlock’s gaze dropped momentarily back down to where he had removed the mustache before meeting hers again, and she thought she saw his eyes grow darker. She held her breath, not sure what she was waiting for, but the air was expectant. 

A crash out in the street broke the silence, and they both looked away involuntarily. Molly didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes as she turned back. “I should go…” she said softly. 

Sherlock nodded, but reached out for her hand. Startled, she looked up into his eyes. “I...That is…” He cleared his throat. “John’s rooms are still vacant here, and I could use another partner to keep up with the rent. If you would be amiable, it could be a very agreeable arrangement. You wouldn’t have to be running all over London at all hours as much, well…” he paused. “That will likely still happen, but at least you would be closer to your own bed.” His eyes were serious as he looked at her. Her own eyes widened. 

“I…”

“You don’t have to respond now,” Sherlock assured her, hand still holding hers. “I just thought, given your recent exhaustion, it could be an arrangement beneficial to the both of us.”

Molly paused to think. Despite his abrasive nature, Sherlock was a good man, and even better, one who respected her, no matter what clothes she worse. As much as she loved her job, her nights with Sherlock were quickly becoming the highlight of her days. She trusted him, and she thought she could come to trust his landlady too, which would make her living with him even simpler than the rooms she was already letting. 

She smiled. “Yes. I think it could be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Would love to hear what you think! You can also find me on my Sherlock blog, thisjustsortofhappened


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